Baby, It's Cold Outside
by Emba
Summary: A fluffy, mushy one shot. Spot hates Christmas...right?


**Disclaimers: **Don't own a thing…except Frenchie. And the plot? Yup, that's about it.

**Authors Note: **This is a mushy, fluffy, soft, sappy Christmas tale. Its purpose is to bring a little smile to your face. I hope I succeed. Actually… I just hope someone reads this. And reviews it. That'd be a hell of a Christmas present!

**PS**: The French sucks in this. Literally, it is probably the choppiest French ever. So, don't kill me if you take French in school or if you _are_ French, cuz I tried real hard. And read the translations as your reading the conversations. They are at the end of the story! Thanks!

The thoughts are in _italics._

* * *

"Mayor caught in money scandal! Thousands a' dollahs wasted!" 

Spot handed a paper to an approaching customer and caught the tossed penny. "T'ank ya, sir." He tipped his hat respectfully.

He shifted his thin scarf around his neck, cursing the sub-zero weather under his breath. He hated winter. He hated cold, he hated snow, he hated it all. Winter was the worst time for a newsie. _Ya can't afford the right attire,_ he thought bitterly, cupping his hands together and blowing in them. And most of all he _hated_ Christmas. What a time to be a poor kid in New York! He was used to "Santa Claus" skipping the Brooklyn Newsboys Lodge, but he would never stop being heated about it. And here he was, Christmas Eve, sellin' papers for a penny a pape. What a way to enjoy the holidays.

"Money lost! Mayor in over his head!" The headline, an embellished one, was giving him trouble today. Earlier, a customer had read the actual story and chased him fifteen blocks, cursing and waving his pape angrily the whole way. Spot was completely caught off guard by the man's quick feet, despite his six feet and two-hundred and fifty pounds. In his hurry, he slipped on a patch of ice and slid in to snow. He growled at the memory of it. Spot could feel a cold coming on already.

Having sold his last paper, he turned quickly before hearing something behind him, (1)"Excusez-moi!"

He twisted to the voice, a light harmonious sound. Spot scrunched his brow, not seeing the person belonging to the pretty melody. Shrugging, he plowed on, determined now more than ever to get in his bed and fast.

Because of his rush, he bumped right in to someone. The someone, a girl, went right in to the snow before him. _What kinda bad luck have I got meself into now,_ he grimaced imaging the squeals and cries this girl would shout at him.

She looked up at him and Spot's thoughts stopped. Her face was rosy from the cold, her nose was upturned slightly. She had expressive hazel eyes, with soft curly golden brown hair framing her heart-shaped face. He immediately smirked, _Bad luck my ass. _"I'se sorry," He said, sounding genuinely apologetic. Spot gripped her hand firmly and hoisted her up to his level. She was tiny, he realized smiling.

The girl smiled back at him, her eyes boring into his almost steadily. (2)"J'ai desole."

He found the voice! "So, what's your name?"

(3)"Excusez-moi?"

Spot bit the inside of his mouth and tried a different approach, "WHAT'S YOUR NAME?" He yelled.

The girl looked at him strangely, with a small simper on her lips. (4) "Je ne suis pas sourd," She laughed quietly to herself.

Despite feeling like a complete idiot, Spot found himself laughing slightly as well. "Well, you'se probly not deaf." He paused, uncertain of what to say now, "Are you from…France?"

She nodded, a happy smile lighting her face. (5) "Oui, oui! Paris…" Her voice trailed off and her grin wavered.

"Paris, huh? Whaddaya doin' heah in New Yawk, of all places? Why would ya leave Paris?"

Her face dropped noticeably, and she looked down right distraught. (6) "Je ne vous comprends pas," She turned and kicked the snow angrily, (7) "Oh, pourquoi a fait je quitte Paris! New York est une ville horrible!" Her lip jutted out and a pout formed itself securely on her face.

Spot laughed outright at her display. The way she talked—too fast for any language—and her spirit—definitely spunky—was very amusing and charming. He grinned at her pleasantly, having no idea what she just said and completely unsure of what to do now, but still strangely delighted by her presence. "You'se a funny goil, ya know dat?"

(8) "Vous êtes un jeune homme bizarre," Her glower was still intact. Was this boy laughing at her? Here she was, a foreigner in a strange place with no one who spoke French in sight, and he was laughing at her? _Giggling is more like it_, she thought sourly.

He looked at her closer now and noticed her pink petticoat soaked in the aftermath of their collision. _Goil must need a place ta stay…and a new wardrobe,_ he noticed her lack of baggage. Spot thought a moment and then started to gesture wildly, trying to communicate with her in any way possible. "You," He pointed to her, "Need…" He paused, utterly unsure of what kind of sign he could give, and then decided to disregard it completely, "a place… to… sleep?" Spot put his palms together and laid his head on it in a vain attempt to resemble a pillow.

She looked at him, clearly confused. Then, with a bowed head, she murmured in a defeated voice, (9) "Je suis une fille stupide…" Spot's eyes bulged as she turned to leave, "'Ey, Frenchie! Wait a tick, huh?"

She twisted back, "Frenchie?"

"Yeah, that's what I'se gonna call ya. Now listen hear, I know ya can't understand me but ya gonna come wit me," Spot held out his frozen, ink stained hand to her, "Come on...take it."

Frenchie, as she was newly dubbed, looked at his hand with a slight apprehension. She let out a deep sigh and looked at him, holding his gray eyes with her hazel ones. He was surprised at how very lost he found himself in them. "C'mon, take me hand."

She smiled softly, and placed her tiny, cold hand in his. He gave it a squeeze before veering off in a different direction. "Let's get some grub, a'right?"

As he guided her down the street he swore, despite the blistering cold, that with her freezing hand in his own, he finally felt warm.

* * *

"How's your soup?" He pointed to the bowl of steamy chicken noodle soup in front of her. 

Frenchie smiled and nodded, (10) "Très bon," She swallowed a giant spoonful, thankful to get something warm in her stomach. A moment of relaxed silence stretched over them as Frenchie recalled her whirlwind of a day. First, she arrived on a boat in New York City. Second, in all her naïve wonder, she had someone gotten her bag yanked out of her hands. Third: She was ignored and scoffed at by many American people as she wondered through the streets of New York. Fourth: She bumped in to some sort of paper seller, who sent her flying in to snow. Fifth and last: He took her to a dingy, but respectable restaurant and paid for her dinner. She let a light smile grace her lips as she stared at him. 'Spot' as he called himself was very easy on the eyes. As he ran his hands through his sand colored hair, he caught her starring and smirked at her. She smirked back.

"You'se real ballsy, Frenchie. I like dat in a goil. Now, all's we gotta do is teach ya some English." He guffawed but then let a serious expression drift over her flushed face, "I really wish ya knew some English."

She let out a heavy sigh, upset at how she could not understand him. (11) "Je souhaite que je pourrais parler l'anglais."

They ate for the rest of the time talking although neither could understand the other, but that didn't seem to bother them. The waiter laughed for a good five minutes after he watched them speak to one another in different languages, "You'se two are two in a million!" He said, good naturedly as he took their empty bowls away.

* * *

It was near midnight when he took her back to the lodging house. He had been letting her curse in French about something horrible that happened to her for a good twenty minutes before he knew she'd catch her death if she was in that wet petticoat any longer. 

Their locked hands, although they were perfect strangers, was totally normal. They huddled close together as they turned a corner towards the Brooklyn Newsboys Lodging House.

Spot put his long, lanky arm around hers before he entered, thinking about the uproar it would cause to see him with a beautiful broad, walking upstairs at a late hour. He sucked in a breath and pushed open the doors to find complete chaos everywhere. His boys were throwing a party!

"Spot!"

"'Ey Spot!"

"Spot, where ya been?"

"Hey Spot, who's the skirt?"

Came the drunken cat calls.

Spot's brow furrowed and he looked very pissed. "What the HELL is this? A party?"

The tipsy newsboys and their female guests all stopped dead and stared at him, their eyes wide with fright.

"A _party_ wit out _me_? What kinda party is dat?" He let his angry mask fall to an amused grin. _How can I be angry?_ He thought, _I feel so…unangry._ He snorted at his own thoughts.

The crowd cheered and several newsies gave him thankful pats and calls of thanks. He smiled arrogantly at them.

Frenchie nudged him and said something with some contempt in her voice. He grinned at her tone and realized she wanted to leave. "A'right Princess, let's get outta here."

He began to take her upstairs but he heard one of the younger newsies yell out happily, "Hey everybody! It's past midnight! Merry Christmas!" They turned in the door way to the stairs and watched the boys sing carols as they staggered around the room.

Frenchie laughed at the sight and for some unknown reason, looked up in the doorway to see it adorned with mistletoe. She let a sly smirk spread across her lips as she tugged on his coat with both her hands. He looked down at her, clearly confused.

(12)"Joyeux Noël," She brought him down to her as she stood on her tiptoes and pressed her lips to his. He smiled against her lips and gripped her waste, bringing her closer to him. Spot could've sworn that was the best kiss he'd ever had. She pointed upwards as they came up for air, and he laughed merrily at the sight of mistletoe.

"Merry Christmas, French." Spot leaned down and kissed her again and she kissed him right back.

_Maybe Christmas ain't so bad after all_, he thought happily.

* * *

Merry Christmas! Wasn't that cute? So, it's not some dramatic, deep tale of love and life but it's nice. Reviews happiness. 

Translations:

1.Excuse me

2.I'm sorry

3.Excuse me

4.I am not deaf

5.Yes, yes!

6.I do not understand you

7.Oh, why did I leave Paris! New York is a horrible city!

8.You are a strange young man.

9.I am a stupid girl

10.I wish I knew how to speak English

11.Very good

12.Merry Christmas


End file.
